A Redemption of Some Kind
by athousandlittlewords
Summary: The Second Wizarding War rages through the world a year after the incident at Malfoy Manor and it is up to the side of the Light to end this fight against evil once and for all. An unexpected arrival of new recruits may just be the advantage they have been waiting for.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This was originally a pitiful attempt at NaNoWriMo, but it has since transformed into an idea that's been knocking around in my head for quite a while now. I hope to update it regularly, but I am a terrible procrastinator so please forgive me if I don't always post chapters on time. This fic is dedicated to my best friend for always bursting with excitement to read the completely unremarkable things I've written.  
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**Disclaimer: As always, anything recognizable belongs to the wonderful J.K. Rowling and all quotes used belong to their individual authors. "A Redemption of Some Kind" is temporarily borrowed from a line in Charles Frazier's _Cold Mountain_. Nothing but the plot is mine.**

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The first time Hermione Granger learns about war, it's with the Cruciatus curse tearing through her body like a thousand white-hot knives and the word 'Mudblood' carved into her forearm. A pair of grey eyes watches her carefully as she violently thrashes on the floor in front of him, her haunting screams echoing through his childhood home. She stares up at him, her eyes unfocused and vacant and he clenches his jaw, forcing himself to hold her gaze as the light in her brown eyes begins to fade into unconsciousness. _No, no, not yet._ He needs her to stay conscious; it's the only reason they will keep her alive. The chandelier falls to the ground, shattering into a million tiny crystals of glass, and she is gone as abruptly as she appeared. He does not see her again for another three hundred and forty-one days, almost a year into the war, but the image of her blood, scarlet and wet and human, trailing down her jaw is embedded in his memory forever.

The second time Hermione learns about war, she feels it in her bones when the bodies begin to drop. Avadas are quick and painless and the most brilliant green she has ever seen, but she soon learns Death Eaters favour curses that sever, slice, maim, and boil the blood in your veins. It is not until Padma's blood is splattered across her shoes that she utters her first curse intending to kill.

The third time, it's toxic and burning in her lungs, black smoke blurring her vision as a severing curse slices a clean line across the side of her face and she collapses to the ground. She awakens with bloody bandages wrapped around her head and cries when Harry tells her she could have died, should have died, if it weren't for the emergency Portkey that brought her directly to the entrance of St. Mungo's. She hugs him tightly and speaks nothing of the silver mask she glimpsed before she fell to the ground and that it wasn't her who activated the Portkey.

The sixteenth, she casts the killing curse without a second's hesitation and does not look back when she hears the resounding thud of a body falling to the ground. She loses Ron in the thickening smoke and retches behind a ruined building, the acrid taste of death lingering on her tongue until nothing remains of her insides.

The twenty-eighth leaves her hair matted with dried blood that is not her own and a numbness that creeps into the marrow of her bones and on the twenty-ninth, she burns their clothes in a fire behind one of the many safe houses she's begun to call home. She stands beside her best friends, their faces hardened by the casualties of war, and watches as their childhood burns before their eyes. She does not leave until the last embers die out.

The thirtieth she pretends is an anniversary. Months have elapsed since the war began, but it feels like her heart has aged ten years in the process. She is tired with a weariness that settles in her spine and an ache in her lungs she feels with each exhale. She exists in an impenetrable darkness, the days bleeding into weeks, time passing rapidly and slowly all at once. She blinks when Dean tells her it's been six months and she is suddenly aware of her hands stained with the blood that is always, _always_ there.

The fiftieth stares at her mirrored reflection as she scrubs her skin raw with dirty soap. She showers every day, refusing to conserve water when she is constantly covered in dust, blood, and grime. Her healed cuts are red once again and she traces the first scars of the war: chest, neck, forearm, thigh, jawline, lower back, cheekbone. She shouts at Lupin when he tries to heal her and insists on wearing them as a testament to casualties of war. The smell of smoke and debris does not fade with time, no matter how many days pass between battles, between improvised funerals for people she has known most of her life, between life and death and the brief moments of chaos in between.

The hundredth time she finds war, Seamus hits the ground with a finality that echoes through the battlefield. He is quivering and afraid, the wound across his chest spilling blood. His breathing is ragged and she holds him tightly to her, whispering words of comfort, of nonsensical things like how it's a better place on the other side and she'll join him soon enough. They bury him beside a towering forest of evergreens the same shade as his eyes and she promises to give him a proper funeral once the war ends, if the war ends.

The three hundredth brings nightmares that wake her with a scream locked in her throat and sweat covering her trembling body. It does not matter which uniform the soldiers are wearing or the weapons they hold in their fists like lifelines. Death takes everyone the same: pureblood, half-blood, Mudblood, Muggle. In the end, they die with no blood at all. She hopes, prays to a god she stopped believing in long ago to end this, end it now before any more lives are taken, before any more children have to die for the mistakes of their fathers. The eerie quiet of death lingers in the air as Hermione shakily stands and crosses an open field, walking between the bodies of the dead and thinking that if everyone could see the bloodstained dirt, the havoc they have wrecked this world with, the chaos and the open battlegrounds, the unmarked graves and the harsh tombstones, war would cease to exist.

The five hundredth, her blood mixes with the cold, wet ground. It's red and brown and buried into her skin. She releases a frenzied laugh, the symbolism not lost on her. _This is war_, she thinks, _bloody and dirty with all of us covered in mud_. It isn't glory or sacrifice or a fight for the greater good. War is nothing but the madness to fight and the hunger to win. It is a thousand times worse than any hell that exists and it consumes and burns hotter than the fires of a dying sun. War does not end with the final battle or the resounding cry of triumph when the last enemy is defeated. War is the aftermath in which quiet violence is the most deceitful enemy of all.

The next time Hermione learns about war, Draco Malfoy unceremoniously hits the ground next to her, his body war-ravaged and ruined with blood as muddy as her own.

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**Any and all reviews are appreciated.**


	2. Chapter One

**A/N: Posting this a little later than I anticipated because school has been kicking my ass lately. It doesn't quite pick up where the prologue left off, but we aren't as far away from seeing Draco as you may believe. **

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"Maybe this was how you stayed sane in wartime: a handful of noble deeds amid the chaos." – Scott Westerfeld, _Leviathan_

Hermione violently coughs into the sleeve of her cloak and leans heavily against the fragmented wall of another abandoned building. The Fiendfyre's blazing inferno destroys the last of the monstrous castle in front of her and leaves a thick veil of purple-tinted smoke in the air long after the fire consumes itself.

The team of Aurors she was assigned to accompany on the raid scour the area once more before they Disapparate back to Headquarters. These missions were normally a waste of time, revealing nothing about the possible locations of Death Eaters or Voldemort's known supporters. The dilapidated houses they frequented were often vacant and covered with an inch of dust, appearing as though no one had dared to venture inside for years. She supposed that if the shelters were used to organize meetings by the other side, they would at least have the foresight to remove all traces of evidence before abandoning them.

The fact that these raids were utterly useless to the Order didn't infuriate her, but the knowledge they were assigned to her for that reason still made her jaw clench in anger. A month after their capture at Malfoy Manor, Remus Lupin handed her a large stack of files detailing thousands of unoccupied residences used in the last war by Voldemort's followers. The Healers had declared her physically recovered from her injuries, but the emotional scarring of Bellatrix's torture would remain as evidence of her survival. It quickly became apparent, however, that she was still seen as the research-driven, know-it-all from school. Or worse, as a fragile piece of glass cracked down the middle, held together and waiting to fall apart. She protested vehemently when Harry and Ron, and even Neville for god's sake, were led straight into the trenches of war, but when they returned from midnight attacks covered from head to toe in deep crimson blood, she began to understand why she was given this duty.

Hermione spends hours agonizing over detailed blueprints of crumbling buildings and is always prepared with contingency plans in the event of threat, capture, or ambush. It isn't until her team of hastily-trained Raiders, as they were nicknamed, Apparate to the grounds of an unused residence that she becomes aware of her role in the war. The enchantments she cast weeks ago to warn their team of unexpected attacks vibrate knowingly upon her arrival. As the magic-filled air hums dangerously around them, she realizes their situations may not be as drastically different as she first thought.

Hermione holds her left fist above her head as a sign of warning to the group behind her. She takes a careful step forward, points her wand toward the wrought iron gate, and closes her eyes. She mutters softly under her breath as she mentally checks the wards surrounding the area. Everything seems to be in order, but as she reaches out to push open the gates blocking their entrance, a violent spell suddenly throws her into the air and she lands on her back meters away from the place she was standing moments before.

Zander Evans, the only Ministry-certified Auror assigned to her investigations, quickly shouts commands at three Raiders to find another entrance into the building. A woman with dark blue, almost black, hair pulls Hermione to a standing position.

"Didn't see that coming, did you?" Raven asks with a sympathetic smile.

Hermione winces and rubs the base of her spine, knowing that a ghastly bruise is sure to form by the end of the night. She gives the girl a nod of thanks and rushes over to the burly man with a long, jagged scar across his cheekbone. Auror Evans briefly glances at her before he waves his wand in a wide arc, emitting blue streams of light into the air.

"You all right, Granger?" His voice is rough and hardened by years in the field.

"Just bruised," she says quickly. "I'll be fine."

"What do you suppose is inside?" He nods toward the darkened building.

"Dark artefacts, according to the source Lupin gave me. I don't know where the Order gathers its intelligence, but it looks like they were hiding something more valuable than trophies in there." She stares into the dark windows with narrowed eyes.

He folds his arms. "It would be best if we left now. It's getting dark out and we aren't prepared enough to handle – "

"I did the research," she interrupts fiercely, "I memorized the building model and I went over every single possible situation we would potentially be faced with."

"Except this one," he says knowingly. "I didn't say you were unprepared. The entire world knows how meticulous and detail-oriented you are, but this is beyond our capabilities. We don't know what is in there and there's a good chance it will be something powerful. We cannot afford to be careless with our missions."

She nods in disappointment. If there was anything she learned during those years spent chasing after Harry and Ron, who preferred to run straight into dangerous situations without a moment's hesitation, it was better to be vastly overprepared than wildly unprepared.

"I didn't say we were going to leave." He frowns tightly. "Just that it was dangerous to stay."

"And we didn't come here for nothing," she finishes.

"No, we didn't and we're not leaving until we have some idea of what they've been hiding." Evans motions for the returning Raiders to join them once again. He turns to Hermione. "Are your wards still holding up?"

"Yes. They seem to be holding, but they are only property wards to monitor the activity surrounding the area. It explains why they didn't detect the enchantment on the gates. The repelling curse must have been placed on the grounds when the manor was built."

Evans turns his attention to the Raiders instructed to search the property line for another entrance. "Lee, did you find anything?"

"No, sir." The girl with a small hoop earring pierced through her nostril hurriedly replies. "The wards wrap around the entire house. It doesn't look like there's another way in."

"Can't we just blast those gates open and storm the castle like they did in the olden days?" A boy wearing a red bandana tied around his arm interrupts with the ghost of a smile.

Evans frowns at the boy's mocking behaviour and assesses the group waiting patiently for instructions. "We're going in. This is a dangerous mission and we'll have to be on our guard at all times. There may be spells in effect to protect against this kind of invasion, ones that are more dangerous than a simple variation on the Knockback Jinx."

A murmur of assent ripples through the small group of witches and wizards. Although they are unprepared for an invasion into a towering manor protected by unknown charms, it will not be enough to prevent them from continuing with their task. A small part of Hermione protests against this irresponsible decision and she pushes it away, tapping into her reserve of Gryffindor bravery. Her thirst for knowledge allows her to ignore the trembling of her knees. She straightens her spine and focuses on the heated discussion rapidly forming around her.

"That leaves us without a means of escape, Pruddock," Auror Evans interrupts the dark-skinned man standing across from him. "This isn't a suicide mission. We go in, look around, and get out." He stares down each member of his team, his tone commanding. "I will not risk the safety of anyone on this assignment, so that means no heroic acts of stupidity. Is that understood?"

He notices Pruddock purse his lips in obvious disagreement as the seven other Raiders rapidly nod their heads in approval. He straightens and turns toward the ominous-looking gates. "Everyone, behind me. Wands out and at the ready."

Hermione grips the familiar vine wood of her wand tightly in her hand. She stands slightly behind three Aurors she cannot remember the names of and feels guilt settle in the pit of her stomach. She didn't bother to become friends with most of her team because of the constant shifting in division as the highly-ranked Order members noted the strengths and weaknesses of each witch or wizard. It was too late now. This mission might as well be a death sentence hanging over their heads.

Their rather unqualified trainers drilled rules into their heads during basic orientation every member of the Order was subjected to. They studied minor healing for spell damage, defense curses, binding and capture techniques, and attack formations until the natural instinct to fight took over. They were instructed to make at least two jumps before Apparating directly to a safe house, even if they weren't being followed, to prevent a Death Eater from accidentally discovering one of the Order's many locations. The Order leaders will be livid when they find out Hermione Granger's team of Property Raiders is entering a building that will not hesitate to kill them as soon as they step foot beyond the entrance gates.

Evans aims a powerful blasting curse at the barrier and grey smoke explodes into the air on impact. Hermione casts a protection spell around the group as debris falls to the ground around their bodies. The air clears and a small grin tugs the corners of her lips upward at the sight of the intricate wrought iron gates charred beyond recognition.

A gap in the pattern forms a small entryway and Evans steps forward cautiously, waving his wand in an arc once more to test the atmosphere for any residual magical energy. He waves the group forward with a beckoning motion and they duck under the sizzling metal, emerging on the other side of the gate.

"All right, I need three of you to guard the entrance. Jones, Williams, and Granger – you will remain outside the manor as a safety precaution. Under no circumstances are you to enter if we have not returned within fifteen minutes. Use a Patronus Charm or red sparks to warn of danger and Apparate to Headquarters if anything unusual happens." Evans forcefully reminds them. "Remember to get out while you still can."

Hermione nods quickly as the other six Raiders of her team cautiously enter the impressively large front door. She scans the grounds for any signs of danger and notices decades' worth of ivy trailing up the outer walls of the manor.

Raven gazes with awe at the towering walls of stone. "It's quite magnificent, isn't it?" She whispers as if she is afraid to disrupt the quiet stillness of the air.

Hermione feels a shiver run the length of her spine. "Yeah, if you like buildings that resemble haunted mansions."

She hears a rough chuckle beside her and turns to see Flynn standing close to them. He smirks at their confusion. "You scared of the big, bad house, Granger?"

Hermione rolls her eyes and refuses to answer his childish question with a dignified response.

Raven huffs in irritation and hits his shoulder. "Shut up, you prat."

"Or what?" He mocks with a grin threatening to split his face in half. "I'll awaken the dragon guarding the castle?"

"No, but you might frighten yourself with all that nonsense."

He holds his right hand over his chest. "You wound me, Raven Williams."

"Keep talking and I'll show you exactly what it means to wound," she threatens.

Hermione frowns at their light-hearted banter and ignites the tip of her wand with a muttered _Lumos_. She points the light toward the ground and examines the underbrush that has surely grown during the years the building has been deserted. Her brow furrows as she realizes the grounds of the manor are pristinely kept; not a leaf is out of place and the grass is neatly trimmed. She lifts her wand to the window she assumed was darkened by grime and filth, only to see a perfect reflection of herself against the glass and a clear view into the parlour behind the window. Her breath catches in her throat as she realizes the implications of an unsoiled manor, immaculate grounds, and lenient property wards. It wasn't abandoned at all. It was waiting.

"What is it, Hermione? Did you find something?" Raven asks warily.

"We – we have to warn them." She stutters, fear settling into the pit of her stomach.

"Warn them about what?" Flynn hesitates, resting his palm on her shoulder.

"The manor," Hermione whispers, "it's not empty."

Raven's eyes widen and Flynn swears under his breath as they sprint toward the entrance of the building. Hermione rapidly conjures a Patronus to warn those gathered at Headquarters of the massacre they would be facing when they arrived with reinforcements. She turns and runs through the intricately-carved doorway with her heart racing beneath her chest. The loud slap of her boots hits the pristine floors of the entrance hall repeatedly and she can already feel blood rushing to her lungs as she pushes herself to move faster. She skids to a halt at the end of the hall and her heart stutters in her chest at the darkened patterns splattered across the tiles that are too watery, too wet, and too red to be mud.

She grits her teeth and slowly walks forward, her wand trembling in her outstretched arm as she turns the corner and finds the hallway empty once again. With measured steps, Hermione carefully strides toward the lit doorway across the hall and strains her ears for any signs of movement. She hears the faint muttering of voices and a sudden explosion of sound as a woman screams loudly, breaking the eerie silence that settled into the building upon their arrival. Hermione breaks into a run again and throws herself through the open doorway, coming to a sudden halt as she absorbs her surroundings, desperately wishing she had stayed outside like Auror Evans had commanded.

The cavernous drawing room is filled with a darkness the light of nine different pairs of wands cannot illuminate. The eight members of her team stand against the wood-panelled walls, staring transfixed at the gruesome scene in the centre of the grand parlour. Hermione chokes on the foul stench of rotting corpses permeating the air as her eyes adjust to the shadows covering the floor. She soon realizes they aren't shadows at all, but bodies of the dead. Hundreds of mutilated and dismembered corpses are strewn haphazardly across the white marble of the drawing room. Some are clothed, but most are not, and all are merely flesh skeletons who were once living, breathing, existing people. Witches and wizards and Squibs and Muggles and Muggleborns – it didn't matter whether the blood running through their veins was pure or magical, they were slaughtered with the same cruelty.

Hermione's stomach clenches tightly and she feels capable of retching everything inside of her body onto the bloodstained floor of the manor. Her lungs scream for oxygen as she collapses to the ground and she absently notices a pair of arms wrap around her torso in comfort or reassurance or a reminder that she isn't alone in this. These people had done nothing to deserve the tragic end they had met, mercilessly killed for the irrational assertion of power. Her bones shake so hard she thinks they might shatter.

Raven clutches her shaking body to her chest and whispers that she is going to Apparate them back to Headquarters. Hermione glimpses the body of a small child, no more than five years old, with haunting eyes widened in fear. The last moments of her brief life embedded deep within the pale violet of her irises.

::

Hermione is jolted from her nightmare when she hits the cold floor of her bedroom with a thud. Her heart thunders wildly beneath her ribcage as she recalls the mountain of dismembered bodies from her memory. She is bathed in a cold sweat and suddenly feels hypothermic as an icy draft washes over her shivering body. Her hands rake through her tangled hair and she shakily sits up, leaning against the mattress of her bed and breathing heavily. She cannot recall every detail of the dream that is now slipping away from her consciousness, but she felt an eerie sense of déjà vu the instant her dream-self sprinted into the mansion. It wasn't until she was faced with the horrific scene in the drawing room did the events shift and become real.

September 29th, 1998. She remembers it perfectly, the blood on the walls and the floor and her hands when she fell to the ground. She surrendered her memories to McGonagall for examination upon her return to Grimmauld Place, her body rattling in Raven's arms like she was experiencing a seizure, and they were returned to her with heightened clarity. The images seemed to burn brighter in her mind every time she relived the recurring nightmare. That night was something she would gladly Obliviate herself to forget.

She closes her eyes and inhales the frighteningly cold autumn air whistling through the open window. Gripping her fists tightly, she wills herself to think of something else, anything but the broken bodies of innocent people and the many graves she has dug since the war began. She angrily wipes at the salty tears trailing down her face and lifts herself off the ground._This isn't the time for pity_, she reminds herself, _you'll have plenty of time to wallow in grief once the war is over_.

With her emotions guarded in the recesses of her mind, Hermione reaches for the sweater carelessly thrown to the floor and pulls it over her head, tiptoeing to the door and opening it as quietly as she can. It creaks loudly and she holds her breath, waiting to see if the loud noise has woken anyone up. She exhales a sigh of relief when she hears nothing except for the sound of heavy breathing from Ron's room across the hall. It really shouldn't be surprising; his loud snoring drowns out every other noise inside the house. Hermione rolls her eyes and casts a wandless Silencing Charm at his bedroom door. She edges toward where she thinks the staircase begins and almost trips over a loose end of the carpeted floor. Cursing the darkness, she holds the railing tightly and tiptoes down the rickety stairs.

"I didn't think anyone else would be awake." Hermione says softly as she walks into the den and sees Neville Longbottom seated in front of the fireplace.

"You're up late." He pauses furiously scribbling on the piece of parchment in his lap and glances at the clock on the wall. "Or early."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Oh," he notices the weariness in her brown eyes. "Would you like some tea? I was just about to put the kettle on." He asks expectantly as Hermione curls up in the armchair beside him.

"That would be lovely," she says with a large yawn.

"Right, I'll be back. Don't you dare fall asleep on me." Neville warns her with a pointed look as he turns toward the hallway.

She glances at the sheet of parchment he left behind and absently wonders what could possibly be so important to write about at nearly four in the morning. Her natural curiosity persuades her to read what he has written, but she refrains from invading her friend's privacy and leans back into the warm leather of her seat as she hears Neville's footsteps approaching. He returns with two rather large mugs of tea and hands one to her carefully.

"Thanks, Neville." She says gratefully and cradles the steaming cup in an attempt to regain warmth to her fingers. She gently sips the warm liquid and notices a slight taste of lavender, but says nothing. They drink in silence for a while until she asks him why he cannot sleep.

"The same reason you're still awake, I suppose." He shrugs.

"And what's that?"

"Night uncovers the things we try to forget during the day. And this darkness," he gestures vaguely around the room, "the hours between sunset and sunrise, is when we feel the ache it leaves behind."

Hermione is silent while she contemplates the truthfulness of his words. Neville is the most honest person she has ever known and he has grown up much too quickly these last few months - they all have. Barely two decades old and already the ghosts of their friends and families remain in the cracks of their aching hearts. She recalls the grief etched into his face when they found his grandmother's lifeless body in her own home. He didn't say a word for almost two weeks after her funeral.

"Do you think it will ever go away?" She asks, a childlike innocence in her question.

He recognizes the slight waver in her voice. "No, I don't think so."

She sucks in a breath and holds the air in her lungs until she feels the tightening in her chest fade away. "Luna isn't back yet, is she?"

He frowns and fingers the edge of the parchment he was writing on. "They'll be gone until at least tomorrow night."

"And you can't sleep without knowing she's safe."

It isn't a question, but he answers her anyway. "I can't sleep when she's not here."

Hermione squeezes his hand sympathetically. "She'll be back soon, Neville. Before you know it, she'll be rambling on about some mythical creature or another lingering by your ear."

Neville's face is slightly brighter when he turns to look at her and he wipes the wetness from his eyes with the back of his hand. He tells her it's almost daylight and she should at least get a few minutes of sleep before it's acceptable to be awake without raising concern from Molly. Hermione sets the empty cup on the table in front of them and drapes the blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders across Neville's pyjama-clad legs.

She reaches the hallway and lingers by the doorway. "Thanks, Neville, for the Sleeping Draught."

His cheeks redden. "I should have known that wouldn't get past you."

She smirks deviously. "For all your stealth, it's a wonder you weren't sorted into Slytherin."

Neville chuckles good-naturedly and returns her whispered good night. She slowly ambles up the flight of stairs to the bedroom she has long since called her own, feeling as though a wave of fatigue has suddenly hit her with the force of a wrecking ball. A small part of her sleep-deprived brain realizes Neville must have modified the potion in her tea to take effect minutes after ingestion, but she is too exhausted to care at this point.

Hermione drags herself up the last few steps before gently pushing her bedroom door open. The bitter wind howls against the softly rattling windows as she pulls the blankets back and crawls beneath the cold sheets. She casts a quick Silencing Charm around her bed for the first time since the war began, knowing that her nightmares _always_ come in pairs. The induced weariness of the potion begins to take effect and she wonders whose eyes she will find staring into her own the next time she is faced with death. A vaguely familiar grey flashes behind her eyelids instantaneously and she drifts into a fitful sleep before she can place the origin of those vacant irises that haunt her most of all.

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**A/N: Any and all reviews/criticisms/hate mail are appreciated.**


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